Robert M. Peterson's Last Poem

[Scootertrash]

the last known poem of Peterson's--He died shortly after completing it...


CABIN FEVER

two weeks solid wind & rain
rasp of chainsaw up
white rock creek
bisecting a blow-down
read voyage of the beagle
'til you go crazy
talk to the fire, lamplight
at noon. voices in
the storm-blacked night
sing your name
this is called
cabin fever

~

truck broke down
hike 2 miles to the ridge
on iced gravel then
3 miles down
to the county road before
i get a ride

run out of rum
tired of canned beans
low on tobacco
last year planted
3 gardens 'fore i got one
to grow

~

bound for a week-end in town
drizzle glistening 101
fuzzy neons advertising
nefarious destinations
boomer's, timber trails, redwood empire
adrenalin & smoke in the brain
clatter of jukebox & dicecup
flash of a dancing thigh

gun-metal dawn
in a drunken motel room
half-pack of marlboros
split the last 3 beers
both secretly wondering
how did i get into this & how many lies
did i tell?

~

stock the cabin four day's wood
two inside by the stove
two in the box on the porch
that way I only have to hit the pile
every other day
canned ham cabbage & corn fritters
can of beer & a shot of brandy
typing poems on a typewriter
half a century old
ice crystals forming all over
northwestern america

Wildwood Falls, Or., 1986

[Scootertrash]

More poems of the late great Bob Peterson, from FAR AWAY RADIOS


BLUES FOR DISMAS

dreaming in lost L.A.
downtown glooms
gospel stew & beans
navajos at the ritz
high sad song of spade queens
in perching square
hipsters of melrose fade
into wallpaper

& golden-headed angels
from berdoo on howling
choppers
crusade the night on black
highways
jamming out across eternal
mojaves
to scream at the moon

(dismas was
a jail-mate of mine
with tales of glasshouse
& lincoln heights
black dahlia &
fatty arbuckle's coke bottle
echoes of wardell gray
in the fading woodwork
CALIFORNIA CLUB
jukebox - mi vida
loca!)

sing a blues for the lone booster
hoofing it down to meet his Man
for the spectral girls of venice beach
carrying books of gibran
out of pacific wash & barefoot
sand
humming like faraway
radios

San Francisco. Ca.1964


AUSTIN CREEK

over the hump
from fort ross
string of alders
near the road
in long green meadows
the king snake
glides

sit on a log
by austin creek
smoke a joint
& drink some wine
watching linnets
nest

put me in mind
of one that used to come
mornings
& sing at the window
of my cell

Cazadero, Ca. 1964


SAN JOAQUIN

remembering back to
these grim valley towns
across wide groves
a hot iron moon
along the road from loci
whole families in pick-up trucks
groups of brown mexicans
from zacatecas
all turning sadly night homeward
drear clapboard farmshack
california

...to the dim heart of fresno
& the grape-pickers strike
VIVA LA HEULGA they sang
all the way from delano
women carrying babies
on their backs...

san joaquin of dusty roads
junkies, ecdysiasts, beat spades
in shades
drawn curtains, hip sing hotel
behind the S.P. soot railtrack
smokey eyes all dreaming
of that warm sweet ocean here
pacific

San Francisco, Ca. 1964


FOR LADY DAY

white gardenias
& white junk

a spoonful of
blues
4 times a day

all those years of
blackness

for an unmarked
grave
&e song

San Francisco, Ca. 1965


EL GUERRERO NEGRO

this alley cat black
with his naked agate eyes
hearing his lady's voice
begins to prowl

his woman is brown & she
is singing

blue fire the city smokes
beneath his
raging hand
& he is singing

simbu be comin' to
kick your ass pretty
soon now
bwana

Oakland, Ca., 1967


BOBBY HUTTON

moon
shone on waiting
rifles
in the dark
flatlands
his soul pushes
up thru glass
& trash clotting
earth
thru curtains
of bitter gas
black avenues
of oakland

helping
a wounded brother
& he was like
a young
eagle
falling

Oakland, Ca. 1968


MOONSTONE HEIGHTS

sweetness of sea wind
caressing gentle skirts
of women in the afternoon

wine & smoke
meat roasting on open coals
kids & dogs
playing

a fervent music
to celebrate this life

the warmth of a few in large
places

Trinidad, Ca. 1970


FOR JANIS

she said call me pearl
our little blue girl
that last time
i saw you at the Mo
we shared comfort
& i teased about your weight
i couldn't know
we wouldn't meet again
& i never told you how much
i loved you

Eureka, Ca. 1970


END OF OCTOBER

end of october
beginning the loco months
wetness of redwood earth
intersticing bright cold days
birds wheeling & crying
salmon thick with roe in rivers
getting wood on the porch
once more feel that old urgency
& am happy for our food &
fire

Fortuna, Ca. 1970


OREGON GRAFFITI

i hear the metallic whisper
steel on steel following
the long lines of the earth
see the snow, oregon chill
hard pines of winter & smoke
thru a frosted kitchen window
watch great northern pass by
y'know that same lonesome train
rolls thru here every night about
this time, pulling my heart along
in a boxcar

Black Point, Marin County, Ca. 1973


HE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE

weird how it goes
with beginnings
& endings
again
this year
winter's over
end of the loco months
new green
appearing everywhere
sweet lunacy
birds & blue skies
eternal snows
glutting the Avers
brown with earth
whales starting north
with precious
young

& pigpen died

my eyes
tequila-tortured
4 days mourning
lost another fragment
of my own self
knowing
the same brutal
night-sweats & hungers
he knew
the same cold fist
that knocked him down
now clutching furiously
at my gut

shut my eyes
& see him standing
spread-legged
on the stage of the world
the boys prodding him
egging him on
he telling all he ever knew
or cared to know

mike hand cocked like
a boxer's
head thronged back
stale whiskey blues
many-peopled desolations
neon rainy streets
& wilderness of airports
thousands maybe millions
loved him
were fired instantly
into forty-five minutes of
midnight hour

but when he died
he was thin, sick, scared
alone

like i said to laird
i just hope he didn't hurt
too much

weird
all these endings
& beginnings
pale voices of winter
faces, Avers, birds, songs
lunacies
i wonder
how many seasons
new green coming once more
to the land
fresh winds turn
bending the long grasses
we'll hear him sing
again

M'. Hermon, Ca. 1973


five from LAMA MOUNTAIN for max finstein

hard
to define
an unfamiliar
land

pronounce
a language
one don't
rightly understand

hands
like claws

faces
like mud

feet
pounding

rattles
thundering
young green
corn

as lightning
dances all
over the
valley

large drops
thud in

dusts
of truchas

like
arrows

wooden flutes
bull-roarers
bells & horns

a flight of crows
a penitente dirge

dark men
on the edges
listening
to pitchforks
of the north prairie
whisper
ing

green patches
laid over
brown

earth
laid over
logs & withes

fire at
the heart of any
house

& drums
to keep the fire
going

(snow lays deep
on lame mountain

well
into spring

& in good years
water all
summer)

viejo
bearded coyote
his tracks
festoon
the sand
spooky
voice in the
wilderness
sarcastic grin
lined with
teeth
fucking in
arroyos
to spread a healthy
lust upon this
land
& above all
prosper

azul! azul! azul!

a small
bird
flew by

as i sat
just
after dawn

in the
outhouse

so i looked
& sure enough

everything
was

temperate chord
multiplied suddenly

into gale
force

hailstones
like
buckshot

inhaled deeply
this high mountain air

grabs a lung
& holds
on
viejo, coyote

fingers
of the wind

playing
castanets

& pointing
west

toward questa
where we will buy
more wine

San Cristobal, NM. July 1974


six from LAMA MOUNTAIN for max finstein

stars
climb above
a stoney
gorge

tres
piedras
looming straight
ahead

conejos
on the highway
all golden-eyed
or dead

westward
thru clouds &
arizonas

over a
low mud wall
singing

slow mad
guitars
of the moon

owls spread their
soft wings over
firmament

hollow calls
with echoes
of their own

hovering
the meadow . . .

water flavored
with pine needles

medicine for
the heart & bone

dreams follow
sandwiched
in between their
hootings


a sudden
rush of
wings
brought my
eyes to
this place
a tiny
plot of
graves
among aspen
along
the road
filled

with bones
of those
who
came to
whip this
mountain &
lost . . .


nueva espana
in the burning south

clanking
with sword
& armor

reeking
of leather
& wine

laying
dust behind
them

choking
everything as
they pass
in search
of cibola

& souls . . .

gathering such men & supplies as
necessary
then proceed up the arkansas
headwaters
turning south toward taos with a
fandango
moon flying like a wild spanish coin
above
the herds raising plumes on the trail
to clot
the clouds & galaxies aloft over this
murderous plain

meat
of lean
jack rabbits
such roots
& herbs
as tewa
are wont
to use
in times
of dire
hunger


warm in a pile of blankets & robes
coals glowing orangery in grate
a house shaped alone by hands
of mud & straw over beams &
wattles
of willow as graceful as the
stream they grew by

long fingers
of wind
pointing
west

signal
the gringo

an abrupt gunman
with hands of
silver

materializes
at the end of an
adobe lane

& fills my
curtain of dreams
with holes


that same
bleak guitar
on a winter day
in the plaza

(what was it
trying to say?)
cielo, meaning heaven, or blue

as pools are
or this exquisite
lupine . . .

blue as
a stripper's
heart, or
the horn
of some
beat tenorman
broke
& stranded in
albuquerque
one night thirty
years ago

drifting
from a
hotel
window
(but that's indigo

another
kind
of
blue . . .)

Black Point, Lama Mountain, 1974


FOR LUCIO CABANAS

by an ancient stone
lake ramp a crucifix
erected for some saint

women pound the wash
eternal mudhens
dip & swim

out board motor sound
far out across
the water

soft gauze
cloudheads mauve
& gold

aloft & flying
above the mountains
of michoacan

smoke rising
from kilns where men are
firing tile

in plazas
the beggar women cry
socorro! socorro!

& in the south
it is said they have killed
cabanas

Ajijic, Lake Chapala, Jalisco, Mexico
December 1974


THIS NIGHT for buddy & celeste

this night. esta noche. lamps
glow here & there, stitching
the velvet with
a golden thread.
nighthawks call amors
with soft cool trumpets.
smell of roasting corn
paints the air as
a girl sings by the dark
lagoon.

horses & cattle fed & penned.
tonight we'll have sierra
with rice & chayote
& spicy langostina soup.
or caguama the way
buddy does it
with soy, pineapple
& peppers.
one-eyed luis
steps down the trail
toward eliodoro's
& an evening

of drunken visionary guitar
& raiceilla...

serpents bend
among the willows.
owls float thru
the selva.
jaguar moves to
feed his hungers as
i move to feed
mine. there is

a communion
between the beast
in my heart

& all of
these

Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico 1975


PORTRAIT: LAUGHING GULL

delicate design of wing
perfectly fluted and curved
for passage between
the prophetic winds.

dark feathered with white
trailing edge. laughing gull.

slicing thru mists &
pollutions.

cabo falso. bays & inlets.
laughing gull drifts
where black steamers
of commerce
trample the waves.

Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico 1975


BREAKFAST AT ELIODORO'S

shadow upon shadow. another dawn
conceived.
liquid movement of deer
melting into
a screen of leaves.
first
smoke oozing
from a palm palapa.
horses stand
saddled & tied
to a big jacaranda.
slate upon black upon blue.
pearl grey layered
with dusky rose

as infant light
thickens.

one eyed luis
groans & staggers
thru a thousand
drunken sleeps
bearing his
terrible carga
of dreams
barefoot up
muddy rock trails
interminable.
head strap. back grip.
the ancient way
lost in foggy
millenniums
transporting
lumber, stone
& maize

but today
it will be
cartons
of beer
tanks
of propane
100 kilos
of river
sand

or,
some gringo's damn refrigerator...

a crystal moment, the light is frozen, then alters
to allow turquoise, dull mauve
& gold.

dewy mountain
insect chirp
silent bell

nothing
moves.

fregata
seemingly motionless
on currents of
heaven
pale, changing...

yellow flower
sulphur stench.
perched on the axis
of a volcanic
chain

beheading the continent.

in recent
memory
mysterious
boilings
& bubblings
in the bay
killed off
all fish
& moved
the beach
one side
to the other
where it is today...
currents of the earth. currents of fire.
currents pacifico.

the sphere turns intelligently

& precisely.

a crow
interrogates
the sky.

tiger heron
walks
the glade.

aloft
an aplomado
scanning coastlines.

men
in tiny log canoes drift & bob
beneath
a morning star.

oceano,
the huge leap of
manta.

huachinango,
swift jaws
of the tiburon.
auks,
porpoises

& the high clean voicing of
whales...

bright, & brighter yet
dawn moves
west
conquering everything

call of the trumpeter in passage
alcatraz on the water, egret on the shore.

countless tiny tracks
web the sands of rio tuito
parrots & scrub jays
splinter the air like glass
quarreling over papaya.
burros stamp & chew
in a stone corral.

further light streams
from behind the mountain
abolishing shadow
& slicing the film of night
from our eyes with
a gentle sword.
releasing secret warmths
& aromas...

schools of mackerel
riffling the calms of
banderas

poseidon, slamming
watery
doors.

far out, tres
marias
& the penal
colony

nightmare!
cold rattle of
chain

glint
of machine gun...

don angel
stands on the playita
barefoot, pants
rolled to the knee
his brown shirt torn

& greets each facet of the morn
with
equanimity
saluting surf, stones, trees, birds & all
creatures simultaneously.

myriad glitters
of the sea
clouds bunched on
the crown of
sierra

punta mite
north
& corrientes
southward...

deep
in selva
a tigre yawns

sheathing
& unsheathing
its claws.

el conejo
didn't stand
a chance.

& dig zopilote, there
always the early
bird

reconnoitering
last night's
murders...

imprint of scorpion
on the wall
like a fossil
imbedded
in strata.

men with arms
like rosewood
women with magic tongues.
obsidian eyes
reflecting hidden rhythms.

we should learn to think like eagles
dream like
serpents
fuck
like bears,

turn the eye
inside out
so es to
really see
the impossible
mathematic
finally
solved

not vision
obscured
but vision
strengthened

the brain
a seed pod
just waiting to
explode!

good herbs. root of mezcal. buds of peyotl
el gusano rojo who dyed the walls
of teotihuacan
blood red
at sunrise on
the equinox.

the poles revolve a wheel
of season terminating
another circle
of extended evolution.
a campesino walks
the trail from town with
sombrero & machete.
at eliodoro's
the crazy gringo poet
apples a breakfast
beer
scribbling delight
as a drunken horseman
clatters up
the stone ramp
wearing
big iron spurs
& tennis
shoes...

upriver the sun suddenly breaks loose from
the ridge
vomiting molten white gold into
the canyon.

a great bronze gallo
blinks, ruffles
his wings
and shrieks
loudly & gleefully
heralding

another
beautiful
day

bees. scarabs & crickets.
it is the dry season.
dogs bark at nothing
mariposa dances
on the breeeeze.
tlaloc dozes in
his hammock
drunk
on time

& raiceilla...

[Zlatko Waterman]

Wit-- and more wit.

And, damn it, it's WITTY.

Some of this reminds me of "The Church of the Sub-Genius."

Just remember: "There's no Prob with Bob."

Neat stuff, Scooter.


--Z

[Scootertrash]

FOREWORD
to Bob Peterson's Alleys of the Heart

If a tree must be felled to make a book, let it be for a book such as this. Behold these resurrected branches. Taste the rare, translucent fruit in scattered clumps among its leaves.

This book contains all manner of living things disguised as words, crafted by a master with seamless artistry, speaking of things that matter to the soul.

Asked to deliver a eulogy at Petersen's funeral, I began riffling through the poets for inspiration, fixing upon a letter of Rimbaud: "The task of a man who wants to be a visionary poet is to study his own awareness of himself. He must seek out his soul, inspect it, test it... learn all forms of love and suffering; search until he exhausts within himself all poisons and preserves their quintessences. He must endure unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith and superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great outcast - and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! And if he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them!"

Petersen did time in the State Pen, time in the gutter, time in the clouds. I've seen him reeling down the street with blood flowing from his head where the cops had had a wail on his vagrant skull. Time to head for Mexico or Oregon, depending on the season.

There are few low dives along the west coast of North America where his short, square figure went unrecognized, from Vancouver to Guadalajara. He drank hard while persuing his fickle whore of a Visionary Muse across the landscape of the 60's & 70's, and delivered a blistered wreck of himself into the 80's.

Once in a while, in the latter days, the light still sparked behind his blue-gray eyes, which only sharpened the pain of beholding a decade long death agony, punctuated with heart attacks, of a man of overt genius.

This is not a light poet you hold in your hands. His aim is true. He will take you somewhat deeper than is comfortable, if you enter his lines rather than flipping through them. This is what a poet should do. It is all he can do. If he does it well, he has done what can be done with words and has earned the right to die proud. He has drunk the wellspring dry. Not drowned in it, like so many of us...it has drowned in him!

The voice of Robert M. Petersen will endure, for those with ears to hear, crackling through the static of our generation like the sound of a far away radio.

--Robert Hunter March, 1988





EDITOR'S PREFACE
to Alleys of the Heart
From time to time Petersen would appear on my doorstep with a new sheaf of poems, or an old one recovered from some half-forgotten corner. I was his depository.

He was a good archivist and editor of his work, careful and meticulous. Alternative drafts exist for only a few poems; in all cases it is clear which is the most recent. In a very few cases, I have invented titles, choosing mostly the first line.

Petersen jumped full-blown into his mature voice with Blue Petre (1964). The consistency after that is remarkable. There are only a few poems which seem too personal or fragmentary to warrant inclusion. Prior to Blue Petre, there is a file of early poems, not included in this collection, which in my view would have detracted from the impact of the mature work.

Another category of work not included is the prose. This is not extensive and is very early. One exception is the prose that Petersen himself placed in the middle of Fern Rock. Likewise, I have not included the lyrics which he wrote for the Grateful Dead - New Potato Caboose, Pride of Cucamongo and Unbroken Chain. Both the prose and the lyrics, though of value in themselves, seem to me to sit uncomfortably beside Petersen's pure poetic voice.

Unlike the first three sections of the book, which existed as already complete entities, Cabin Fever had to be constructed on the basis of the title which he had told me he intended to use for a new collection of poems. This gave the clue to content; I believe the collection was meant to include those poems written after Far Away Radios - all of these relate to his theme.

The poems are arranged in chronological order, the sequence ending with those poems of Cabin Fever which were written at Wildwood Falls, Oregon, in 1986.

The exception to chronology is the last section, Dream of California. Unlike the previous three, which are Petersen's own collections and titles, this last suggested itself to me upon review of the remaining material. The poems here are nearly all undated. They include the unpublished collection Pecker Poles, which Petersen had cannibalized for Far Away Radios, and several of his longer poems. I have made up my own sequence, choosing to end with Seismic Disturbances, the last fifteen lines of which might well stand as Robert M. Petersen's epitaph, expressing, as they do, the modesty and warm determination of his nature.

In preparing this collection for publication, I am grateful for the help of Bobby's family and friends: Jane and Didrik, Phil Lesh, Laird Grant, Robert Hunter, Mountain Girl and Dick Wilcox.

Alan Trist, Eugene, Oregon, March, 1988